


Ride, Ride to Ruin and the World's Ending

by Isis



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Pelennor Fields, Tar-Míriel is the Witch-King of Angmar AU, Third Age, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5781928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two canon divergences:  Tar-Míriel is the Witch-King of Angmar, and the Battle of the Pelennor Fields goes a bit differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride, Ride to Ruin and the World's Ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perplexingly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perplexingly/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Not by the Hand of Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5067949) by [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath). 



> Dear perplexingly - I was captivated by your prompt, even though this is only a tiny snippet of the sprawling epic it implies. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to Luzula for beta-reading.

The winged beast carrying the Lord of the Nazgûl descended upon Théoden, its vast leathery pinions beating the air. "Hold!" shouted Dernhelm, but the horse Windfola, blind with terror, reared and plunged, and Merry lost his grip and tumbled to the ground. 

Crouching in the muck of the battlefield, his face streaked with blood and mud and tears, Merry dared not glance upward. Then a clear voice rang through the clamor of the battle: Dernhelm's voice, issuing a challenge to the Black Rider, whose pitiless response drove Merry to close his eyes and shrink even further into the mud. Surely death was at hand for his friend, and most likely for himself as well. 

Yet Dernhelm persisted: "Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may."

"Hinder me? Thou fool," spat the Nazgûl Lord, in a voice as cold and dark and eerie as his presence. "No living man may hinder me!"

Dernhelm laughed. "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter."

Merry opened his eyes in surprise. Indeed it was Éowyn, her helm no longer hiding her face. Pale gold hair rippled from her shoulders as she raised her sword. A brave, defiant gesture, thought Merry, for he could hardly look at the terrible figure that towered before her on the huge beast: burning eyes under a crown of steel, and a cloak so black it seemed to swallow the light.

And then, to Merry's astonishment, the Nazgûl Lord laughed as well, a harsh, sharp sound that hurt Merry's ears. "Brave warrior! _Where will wants not, a way opens._ "

Those had been the words that Dernhelm – Éowyn – had quoted to him that day the riders passed out of Edoras, before lifting him to Windfola's saddle and taking him to the fields of Gondor. 

Éowyn remembered those words as well, and her eyes narrowed. "Do you mock me? I shall slay you nevertheless."

"Hold, Éowyn, Éomund’s daughter. It is not mockery, but fellowship."

There was something strange in his voice, a gentle thread under the merciless iron. He patted the leather-winged beast on its neck, then vaulted off, standing before Éowyn with gauntlets raised. He slid one from his hand, revealing the same empty space that filled his cloak. A cold wind sprang up that made Merry shiver. Éowyn gasped.

An unearthly shimmer surrounded the Nazgûl Lord, and his empty visage seemed to flicker as though lit by a far-off fire, his strong, elegant features slowly taking shape under the steel crown. No, not _his_ features, Merry realized. _Hers_. 

The Lord of the Nazgûl was – or had once been – a woman.

"But you are the Witch-King," said Éowyn slowly.

"The Witch-King of Angmar that is, the Queen of Númenor that should have been. Tar-Míriel I was once. But my usurping cousin could not bear the thought that a woman might rule. He claimed the Scepter for himself, and I claimed...something else."

The name meant nothing to Merry, but Éowyn frowned. "The histories say Númenor was lost to the waves, and the Queen Tar-Míriel with it."

A smile spread across Tar-Míriel's face. "The histories, Éomund’s daughter, are written by men."

Around them the battle raged, shouted voices and clashes of steel rising to all sides. The hideous beast stamped the ground among the dead knights that lay scattered around Théoden's broken body. Merry lay in the mud, frozen with horror, unable to bring himself to either move or look away from the two figures who stood staring at each other.

"Fair shieldmaiden! Thy courage and thy beauty speak to my heart. Hast thou not lived long enough as the toy of men? Wouldst not prefer a lover who sees thy worth?"

Éowyn's eyes dropped to where Théoden's body lay sprawled in the muck. Her whisper was barely loud enough to carry to where Merry lay. "I would not live as the toy of men."

"The choice is thine," said the Lord of the Nazgûl. She raised the great mace she held in one hand. "Battle with me and die on this field, one maiden amongst these knights. Or rule with me, and we two queens will write our own histories."

Tar-Míriel extended her other hand toward Éowyn. Merry could not bear it any longer.

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" he cried, rising to his feet, his small sword clutched in his hand. "Remember Théoden! Do not go with her!"

"What," said Tar-Míriel, looking down from her great height, "is that?"

"I am Meriadoc the hobbit, and I will not let you take the Lady of Rohan!"

"Ah." And, turning to Éowyn: "Wilt let this small hobbit-man speak for thee?"

Éowyn met his eyes, and Merry fancied he saw regret mixed with the determination in her gaze; then she looked up again, and it was as though a mask had slid across her face, as hard and concealing as the iron guise of Dernhelm.

"None speak for me, save myself alone," said Éowyn. She held out her hand to the Nazgûl Lord, who brought it to her lips. Then, as one they vaulted onto the back of the huge dark steed; leathery wings beat, and as Merry watched, the terrible beast lifted into the air, circled the battlefield once, and vanished into the clouds.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Éomer's cry when he sees his sister's body, believing her dead.
> 
> A few lines of dialogue were directly lifted from Tolkien.


End file.
